


Lead Me Through The Fire

by edenbound



Series: shanaqui's Comfortember Fics [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley has nightmares; Aziraphale is there.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: shanaqui's Comfortember Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015975
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	Lead Me Through The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic Crowley is basically asexual (an argument could be made for grey-A). He engages in some sexual acts with Aziraphale anyway, for intimacy's sake. There is no angst about this, no problem between them, it's just a thing!
> 
> For comfortember prompt #3, "nightmare".

"What do you dream?" Aziraphale asks, softly. Crowley jerks at the sound, catching his breath in a gulp. He's pouring with sweat, stupid human heart hammering in his chest, and he's sure he must have been grinding his teeth to powder in his sleep. Aziraphale is barely visible in the dim light, and there are pillow creases marked on his cheek. He's been sleeping, too. But he's looking at Crowley now, a hand half-reached out toward him.

"Fire," Crowley says, because it encapsulates everything: hellfire, burning burning burning down and coring him out and taking everything that is good in him. The fire in the shop, taking the books and the gentle clutter and the scent-taste of Aziraphale in the air, taking everything that was good in his world. The fire of the Bentley, searing him anew --

"Darling." There's a rustle and the mattress dips beneath him. He lets himself be rolled into the warm space Aziraphale has made, and the covers drop over him, warm and fluffy and heavy. They're nose to nose now. "Do you always...?"

"No. Well. Yes, at the moment, but I used to dream of..."

"Of what, dearest?"

Crowley can almost taste him, a breath away: angel-scent and old books, and a little coffee and biscuits. "You, of course."

"I hoped so," Aziraphale says, and his warm hand cups Crowley's cheek and they're kissing. It's familiar by now, this kissing, in the sense that Crowley knows what to do. He knows the shape of Aziraphale's lips and the soft heat of his mouth; he knows the taste of him, beneath the coffee and biscuits, and he knows the gentle strength of him. Aziraphale always feels so warm and solid, a banked fire inside a human body, and Crowley craves it. He wants to press himself against Aziraphale like a snake sunning on a rock, let the heat of him sink in to what is left after his own heavenly fire went out.

"Angel -- "

"I know," Aziraphale says, shifting and letting one of Crowley's legs slip between his, letting them tangle together further, letting Crowley press closer to him. He hums a pleased note as Crowley kisses his throat, slips open each button on his pajamas, seeking skin and scent and taste and _more of him_. Crowley can get lost in it, and he does, leaving marks in the shape of his mouth on Aziraphale's collarbone, on his shoulder, over the tender place where he can almost taste Aziraphale's pulse through his skin.

When he finally goes further -- when he's undone every button and put his mouth everywhere, drinking in the noises Aziraphale makes -- he slips his hand inside the stupid striped pajama shorts right away, too impatient and greedy for more. Another time, he will pull the shorts down, he will worship Aziraphale longer, but now -- now Aziraphale's hard, his cock already a little slick at the tip, and Crowley flames up with need and hunger for it, to see Aziraphale, to make him -- 

Aziraphale makes a noise, a noise that Crowley had never heard from him before they started doing this; something like his pleasure at the right kind of chocolate cake, moist and rich, or a perfectly cooked steak or -- but also nothing like that at all, a noise of surprise and satisfaction and need. Crowley kisses him now, to taste that noise in his mouth, and rubs his thumb there at the tip of Aziraphale's cock, already slick with pre-come. He feels the groan in his entire body, and he sinks into it, the task of pleasing Aziraphale.

He knows things now that he never knew before. Aziraphale likes to be kissed, while Crowley does this; he likes it more even than having Crowley's mouth on him, though he calls Crowley's mouth clever and wicked and wonderful when he's pulling on Crowley's hair and thrusting into it. He likes the pace almost tortuously slow at first, and Crowley imagines it must be a fierce ache by the time Aziraphale's ready to let go, go a little faster. He knows the exact spot to rub, the little degree of firmness that makes Aziraphale's breaths go ragged.

Crowley does all those things that Aziraphale loves, kissing him the whole time, drinking in his pleasure and giving it back. He started slow, but that doesn't seem to matter today -- Aziraphale's eager for it, pushing into Crowley's hand with greedy little shoves of his hips that Crowley encourages with delight.

"Come on, angel," he whispers in his ear, _tempting_ , in the same voice as he has offered another glass of wine, another nibble, another few moments in his company, throughout the whole span of time. It works better than he'd thought, because Aziraphale sucks in a breath and then loses it in a stunned desperate noise, and there he is, he's coming, his come slick and hot all over Crowley's fingers.

He takes a few moments to relax after that, his eyes closed, and Crowley covers him with kisses again, miracles his hand clean so he can pet him, long soothing strokes up his side. It always seems so transcendent for Aziraphale, almost enough to make him curious to try it himself. 

"I can touch you, if you want," Aziraphale says, a smile in his voice.

"You know I don't," Crowley says, because the thought of it is better than the doing, and he never wants Aziraphale to fall short. What he does want is to be _closer_ , and he gives in to the urge, pressing himself to Aziraphale's body again. He covets this, the heat of Aziraphale on every inch of bare skin, even the muted warmth where clothes get in the way. A closeness he thought was gone.

"I know," Aziraphale says, still smiling. "It's just an offer, should curiosity -- or temptation -- get the better of you."

Crowley huffs a laugh, letting their foreheads touch. The feverish heat of his dream is gone, and the gentle warmth of Aziraphale's post-orgasm drowsiness is tempting in its own way. "Go back to sleep, angel."


End file.
